


Under the Influence

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Angry Sex, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Hatesex, M/M, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alcohol impairs your judgement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Influence

The hand in Ron Weasley's trousers is the result of a long series of very bad decisions that he is probably not sober enough to fully and accurately explain at the present time. Viktor Krum is leaning over him, with an arm over Ron's shoulders and a hand in Ron's trousers, and in the midst of this situation the only thing Ron is absolutely, one hundred percent, unshakably certain of is that he should've talked Harry out of it.

The problem was, Harry hadn't been clear what It was, entirely. Ron suspected Harry hadn't actually known when he agreed to it. _The point is they want us to play Quidditch in Russia,_ Harry had said, and muttered about travel and practice and the match against Tutshill. It was, Ron gathered, some kind of weird sports diplomacy; Hermione could've explained it if they'd been on speaking terms, but she'd spent the last week at her parents' house and this time it didn't look like she was coming back.

So Bad Decision #1 had been not speaking up before Harry grudgingly agreed to play the match. Bad Decision #2 had been agreeing to go with him.

_It'll take your mind off, y'know, things,_ Harry had suggested. In a sense it's worked, because Ron's mind is currently on the large hand ever-so-gently squeezing his cock rather than Hermione, but he can't tell Harry that because Harry's mind is currently turned to the task of sucking Draco Malfoy's tonsils out. Malfoy represents Bad Decisions #6 and #7, by Ron's reckoning, because not only had he not killed the pointy little bastard on sight he had in fact attempted civility with him, at Krum's request. And Krum was Bad Decision #5...or possibly #4...was a Bad Decision, because he'd seemed so damn eager for the event to go well that Harry and Ron had offered to help him however they could. Well, Harry had offered. Ron had gone along with Harry and tried to ignore the way Krum was staring at him all funny-like. He suspected at the time that Hermione had perhaps owled him about the latest Incident, being as they are all buddy-penfriend-like.

Hermione. Jesus.

She is _not_ going to be happy with them.

But Ron is not capable of holding that thought in his head longor any thought, reallynot the head on his shoulders and certainly not the head under Krum's smooth fingersas the other couch tips over and Harry and Malfoy tumble backwards, out of sight. Ron thinks the leg kicking up over the edge is Malfoy's but can't be certain, as they both lost their kits several minutes ago. Viktor is still in his kit, bloody Bulgarian red, and they looked very dark where Ron's white uniform robe is bunched up over Viktor's sleeve, at the point where Viktor's hand disappeared several moments ago.

Bad Decision #12, or something like it: Ron had let Harry talk him into playing.

He is going to kill the official Keeper later, he decides distantly. Unless it's a witch. He can't kill a witch, his mum would kill _him._ But he will probably be very very unhappy with her, because her poor judgement (#11a) involving the local delicacies left the team very shorthanded an hour and a half before the game was supposed to go on.

Harry's bad decision (#11b) was to announce he knew where they could find a substitute on short notice. But, in re Bad Decision #4/5, Ron had promised.

So that was how Ron ended up flying out with the reserves of the English National team against a team of six assorted Slavs and Draco Malfoy. He hasn't yet figured out what the git was doing playing Quidditch if he is meant to be in hiding and it's a bit late to asking about it now. Make not asking about it earlier Bad Decision #8, and not reporting him to the British Aurors #9. Even if he says he changed sides. Which, Ron thinks a little hysterically, he must have done, because there is no way Harry is making those squeaky noises behind the upturned sofa, at least not by himself. But in terms of political sides, well, it doesn't matter what Malfoy did or not because Viktor asked them to be nice. And Ron was nice. Pleasant, even. He actually stopped Harry from attacking Malfoy with a dull knife on their first sight of each other, which was probably Bad Decision #8...8.5 something. He didn't stop Harry snarling at Malfoy over the pre-match feast, but Malfoy was doing his own snarling at Harry, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves at the time. Much like they are now. Only without the squeaky noises.

Viktor's hand moves, and Ron makes a squeaky noise himself and says _"Fuck."_

Playing in the match was a Bad Decision. Carrying on playing after the rain had started was also a Bad Decision (#14?) but Harry had been looking more than a little deranged at that point, and muttering about Malfoy, even though Malfoy was playing Chaser for this game. Which didn't bother Ron at the time, since it just gave him that many more chances to foul the little git on every approach to the hoops. But Harry and Malfoy spent the whole feast glaring and muttering at one another and quite a bit of the match as well, and Ron had learned long ago that glaring and muttering Harry was a bad idea so he agreed to keep playing in spite of the thunder. Bad Decision #15. Or was it #14? He'd lost track.

Only it had seemed like a good decision at the time, seeing as the English team won, and Ron always thought of winning as a generally good thing, especially when it came to wars and Quidditch. But Harry just snarled at Malfoy and Malfoy snarled back and Ron dragged Harry back into the changing rooms to avoid a full-blown duel. Bad Decision #17, at it happened, because if they'd just started hexing each other everyone might've gotten a restful evening in the magical hospital in St. Petersburg instead of this. Or maybe just deported.

Instead Ron got a thrashing armful of wet angry hero and an invitation to a post-match celebration from Viktor Krum himself, who was looking at Ron funny again. At the time Ron thought he had just looked like shit, what with being wet and rumpled and wearing a uniform that fit wrong in all the wrong possible places, while Viktor managed to look wet and windswept and heroic and shit, even having lost the Snitch by a mile. Ron had actually almost turned down the invitation, which would've averted Bad Decision #18.

(Knowing what now seemed obvious, what with the hand in his trousers, would've surely averted #18. But certain bits of Ron brainssurprisingly, not the most drunk onesare floating the idea that that may have been its own bad decision.)

Now Ron is stinking drunk because "post-match celebration" turned out to mean himself, Harry, Krum, Malfoy and more bottles of some pale Russian liquor than he was capable of counting at the time, and he's certainly not gotten any better as the night has progressed. Viktor managed to insert himself between Ron and Harry in the corridor and when he said _haff a seat_ he sort of bumped Ron down on the couch next to him, in a way that was almost, but not quite entirely, subtle. Harry and Malfoy had looked at each other and sneered in perfect synchronization.

_I think I'd like to change clothes first,_ Malfoy said, which was downright diplomatic by his usual standards, although the tone of voice could've been less disgusted.

_Yeah,_ Harry said, _wouldn't want to catch anything._

No, sit, Viktor said, and poured them all a drink that had Ron's nose tingling from several inches away. _Dis vill varm you up, yes?_

Oh, hell, yes.

The first swallow started devilishly smooth and turned into dragonfire halfway down Ron's throat, and his eyes teared and he coughed and Viktor smiled like Christmas was coming early.

That was Bad Decision #19.

He is currently holding Bad Decision #32.

Harry put away even more than that, and Malfoy apparently felt compelled to keep up, because up until around Bad Decision #25 all they did was take alternating shots and glare at each other from opposite ends of the couch and drip. It was Ron's #25 and Harry's...shit, Harry can count his own damn bad decisions, but it was around that point when Malfoy nudged Harry's ankle with his foot. Harry snarled. Malfoy nudged. Viktor tried to carry on conversation and Ron monitored the way the room was turning.

Malfoy spread himself out all over the couch and _joggled_ his foot at Harry, so Harry spread out and started _joggling_ back. They snarled and glared and did another shot, and while Viktor was pouring Ron Bad Decision #26 they started to creep towards one another. Slowlike. Ron almost thought he was imagining it, what with trying to divide his attention between Harry and Viktor, who seemed at some point to have begun talking about bogies, or perhaps he meant boggarts and didn't know the word, but the point was Ron was lost. He could not have gotten a grip on the situations with both hands and a Sticking Charm.

So he didn't notice when Malfoy and Harry got close enough to elbow each other in the ribs. Not, at least, until Harry suddenly shouted _God damn it, Malfoy!_ at which point Ron sat up and tried quickly to assess how likely he was to injure himself if he tried to intervene magically here.

The Malfoy shouted _Fuck you!_

And then Harry kissed him.

Ron did not believe his eyes for a moment, mostly because he was having serious difficulties aiming them, so he blinked. Nothing changed. Blinked again. Now Malfoy was kissing Harry back. And Viktor was refilling his drink like this sort of thing happened all the bloody time.

_Wha?_ Ron managed, which was a feat because he couldn't quite get his mouth to close.

Viktor made a Bulgarian toast and tossed back the shot like it was water. That was about when the squeaky noises started from that side of the room.

Ron looked at Viktor and pointed at Harry and Malfoy with his glass.

Viktor shrugged.

Ron swallowed as much of his drink as his burning tonsils would allow, but it didn't help. He choked and sputtered and Harry kept snogging Malfoy and Viktor put his hand on Ron's knee.

Hand. Knee. Viktor's hand. Snogging. Huh? _Huh?_ Ron said.

_Ve are maybe needing to catch up? _Viktor said.

Ron said, _Huh?_

Which brings us back to the hand in his trousers.

Viktor's hand moves again and Ron drops his drink, and it's somewhat comforting that the liquor doesn't start eating away the floorboards right away. The leg dangling over the edge of the upturned couch is bouncing in a quick steady rhythm and the squeaky noises have stopped, momentarily, which would be comforting if they hadn't been replaced by something more guttural and sort of moany. And loud.

Ron tries closing his eyes. It doesn't help.

"Veasley," Viktor says very low and slow and hot and liquory in Ron's ear, "vould you like a hand vit dis?"

Viktor's hand moves again and Ron's whole body jumps. "Huh?"

"Dat vas supposed to be a poon."

"Poon?"

"Avat is ita play of words?"

"Okay." Ron does not have enough blood in his brain to figure this out, because in spite of everything Hermione ever told him about alcohol (jesus, jesus, don't think of her _now)_ he is getting hard in Viktor's hand. Viktor's moving hand, sort of gentle, up and down and dry and warm and bloody buggering bollocks, he is drunk. "'M drunk," he tells Viktor.

Viktor nods gravely. "I am not."

"Good," Ron says, because that means Viktor can be the responsible one and stop wanking Ron through his boxers.

Only Viktor kisses him, which is decidedly irresponsible, and Ron would say so if he could say anything with Viktor's tongue in his mouth like that. Instead he squeaks again and sort of paws at Viktor's head and shoulders, not very well, until his fingers catch in thick black hair and stay there. It's not a terribly bad kiss, really, just strange with the stubble and the way Viktor's nose sort of bumps his, but there are _principles_ involved here, and Ron is very _drunk_ and also _straight._ Except for that one time. And apparently now. So maybe that just makes him bendy.

"Bendy," he tries to say, and this time Viktor sort of squeaks, but only because Ron bit his tongue.

"Vot?"

"Bendy," Ron says again. "I'm bendy."

Viktor blinks and starts to pull away. "Vill you be sick now?"

"Nooooo," Ron groans. He's principled and drunk and bendy, and this is probably a Bad Decision. But he's also hard. Hard and sitting on a couch with one of the greatest Seekers in history who is also trying to snog and/or wank him. Who is looking at him with sort of hooded eyesthough he's not sure that's the word, he' doesn't think he's ever actually seen hooded eyes, leastways they don't have little hats onbut if anybody's eyes are ever hooded then Viktor's are now. He's not that bad looking a bloke, really, though it's a shame about the nose, not that Ron has much room to talk in that department. And Ron is hard. And Viktor is wanking him.

It is apparently a night for Bad Decisions.

Ron discovers his hand is in Viktor's hair and tugs on it, probably too hard. "Not sick. Don' stop."

Viktor is smiling again.

They kiss and Viktor tastes like liquor, or maybe that's the only thing Ron can taste because it's burned all his tongue off, but either way it's a good thing or at least better than if he tasted like, say, borscht. Though Ron isn't certain that they routinely eat borscht in Bulgaria, and it doesn't really matter anyway when Viktor's hand starts moving again, up and down, oh-so-firm. Viktor's also trying to move Ron, sort of turn him a bit on the couch, and Ron thinks it would probably be polite to actually help the process in some way but he hasn't got that much coordination. He doesn't fight it, though, not when Viktor's sort of climbing on top of him and certainly not when Viktor's hand slips and sudden he is not wanking Ron through his boxers, he is _inside_ Ron's boxers, rubbing the sticky bits of the head with what feels like his thumb and Ron's going to pretend that's a thumb because he doesn't have enough brainpower left to think too hard about the matter: the bits of his mind that are still afloat are mostly busy screaming _fuckfuckfuuuuuck!!!_ or remembering that he has to sometimes breathe. Even when it makes a squeaky noise.

But then Viktor moves again and Ron feels something between their bodies, against his leg, and it's sort of stiff and sort of uncomfortable so he tries to nudge it out of the way. Viktor groans. Ron nudges. Viktor groans. Whatever it is down there is poking into Ron's thigh and it's weird and when Viktor moves it moves and

_ohholycrap it's a cock._

It's _Viktor's_ cock.

Viktor is _rubbing_ his cock against Ron's thigh. And _squeaking_.

Somewhere on the shadowy sea of alcohol in Ron's brain a little bell starts clanging through the fog. Bad Decision. This was a Very Bad Decision. Nobody told him that cocks were going to be involved, that is, cocks other than his own, and he's not this bendy that one time notwithstanding, and this should stop, this really ought to stop, he ought to

Viktor bites down on the distended tendon in Ron's neck and then _sucks_.

Maybe he can handle it after all.

There is more biting and sucking and kissing and rubbing, and then Viktor is shoving Ron's robes up and pants down, another operation he can't really move well enough to help with, though he might have sort of kicked Viktor in the head trying. And then Viktor opens his own trousers, and, hello, there it is, and it's a bit bigger than Ron's, and he's not at all sure about what happens next or even what will happen next; he looked at the upturned couch for, maybe, inspiration or something, but the foot slung over the edge has stopped moving and there's not more noises squeaky or otherwise coming from behind it, so either they've passed out or murdered each other. No help there.

Viktor grabs Ron's hips and rubs their cocks together and oh holy _crap_ it's even better than that one time. Or maybe Ron's just drunker. Or maybe it's something about the way Viktor is kissing him at the same time, and leaving a whole necklace of hickeys above Ron's collarbone, and somehow moving his hips so that every thrust makes Ron see little bursts of stars in the corners of his eyes. Ron thrusts back and holds on (to Viktor's bare arse, oh fuck, oh god) and he thinks he's mumbling, stupid embarrassing stuff like "good" and "don't stop" and "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck" but Viktor is swearing loudly in Bulgarian and it drowns everything else out. Everything but Ron's pulse hammering in his ears and the sort of squishy slipslap sound that their cocks are making, which would be sort of gross sounding on its own if it didn't feel so. damned. _good, _this rubbing and sliding and sucking and biting and oh

Ron comes first and it splatters on Viktor's front, and for a moment Ron imagines it's in a sort of pattern like the negative image of the English team's robes, some weird sticky white cross of St. George on a bloody red field. Or would it still be a cross of St. George if it was the opposite colors? He tries to grasp the question into the curve of Viktor's neck while Viktor keeps thrusting and grunting and smearing come all over both their cocks, which somehow manages to be so completely dirty that it's actually a little bit sexy all by itself. Only Ron thinks he is not quite bendy enough to be calling this sort of thing sexy, even a little bit.

And he falls asleep.

-/--/--/-

 

Ron doesn't wake up with a hangover. There is no word for what he wakes up with. A lesser wizard may have actually died of it. If it could be bottled as a potion it'd be banned as Dark Magic. He also has to piss like a racehorse and his trousers have gone.

It's a testament to exactly how awful he feels that for a little while, pissing himself in bed looks like a viable option. After a while he does move, though, with the gingerness of a man whose limbs may at any moment fall off. This gets him sitting up on the side of the bed, the bed in inn in Moscow, which he takes as an initial good sign. They at least made it home from Krum's place. And he at least remembers that they were at Krum's place last night. All in all he feelings he is doing quite well this morning.

He checks the clock. Afternoon. Right.

He dares to turn around and check Harry's bed, because Harry's bed is nearer the windows, which are letting obscene amounts of sunlight into the room even with the curtains drawn. Harry is, thankfully, in his bed, and breathing. So is Draco Malfoy, and Ron doesn't even try to comprehend that; he's already got enough of a headache as it is. He turns away again and summons the strength to stand, and tug his uniform robes off all the way, before shuffling to the loo.

He pisses in the toilet and then retches in the sink, though there's nothing inside to come up; they'd been drinking on empty stomachs, what a stroke of bloody genius. Ron is just fumbling for a toothbrush when Krum enters from the other room in the suite. "Good afternoon," Krum says with altogether too much good humor.

"Nnngah," Ron says. He sticks the toothbrush in his mouth, while Krum pisses as casually as you please. Not that there's anything there Ron hasn't already seen, but there are fucking principles involved, you know. "Whassa wi Mafa?"

"Vot?"

Ron spits minty foam into the sink. "Malfoy," he says. "Why is heyou know? Where he is?"

"He vould not let go," Krum says. "Dey verevot is vord?snuggle? Ven I vos trying to separate dem he bit me."

"Ehh?"

"Malfoy bit me." Viktor holds up one hand, and sure enough there's a semicircle of dark pink marks on the fleshy part below his thumb. This opens up all kinds of avenues of speculation for Ron, and they're all going to make his headache worse, so he concentrates on decontaminating his mouth.

And also on not looking at Viktor.

But mostly on his mouth.

Really.

"I haff a hangover potion vit me," Viktor saysno, dammit, he's Krum, Ron's going to call him Krum from now on. "If you are needing one."

No mere potion is going to make a dent in Ron's symptoms, but just when he is about to decline a series of noises emerged from his and Harry's room in rapid succession: a screech, an explicative, several thumps, tearing fabric, and two enraged voices arguing over one another. He spits in the sink and says, "They're awake."

Vi_Krum_ is zipping up and looking at the door with brows so furrowed they look like they're going to pop off and escape. "Should ve be stopping dem?" he asked.

"Nah, Harry'll make take care of him easy."

"Dat is vot I am fearing."

Something crashes against the door, something rather heavy, like a body, or a bed. More swearing and indeterminate shouting. "He's a shitty Chaser anyway," Ron announces, and sticks his head under the tap. The cold water doesn't do much to sooth his headache or his temper.

Krum doesn't say anything, but leaves the door to the other bedroom open, so Ron towels off and follows him in. It's also far too bright to be allowed, but nobody's dueling to the death and there is in fact a potion; Krum pours a glass but Ron drinks straight from the bottle. Krum sits on the edge of the bed and Ron realizes a beat too late that there aren't any other chairs in the room.

"How'd you get this room, anyway?" He asks and tries to sort of lean casually against a wall.

"I am knowing de innkeeper," Krum says simply.

"Oh. Um, thanks for bringing us back."

"I vos not having enough beds for everyone."

_How many do you really need?_ Ron thinks, but there's another thump from the other room and he admits that Harry and Malfoy probably should've been separated, biting or not. Like him and Viktor.

Him and _Krum._

Dammit.

"I vish to apologize," Krum says softly, while Ron is still nursing the bottle.

"For what?" he asks. "Getting us all liquored up and having your way with me? Gee, why'd you ever need to apologize for that?"

"I vos not _liquoring _you," Krum says peevishly. "I vos not knowing how thin is English blood."

That is a whole different argument altogether, and Ron is not going to be dissuaded from this point. "So it was just your lucky night, then, yes? You got the sideshow" he points at the door "and a willing main attraction all in one go."

"You vere not complaining!"

"I was fucking _drunk!"_

Krum goes quiet, and lets Ron's head thrum with the echoes of his own shout. The pair in the other room have gone suspiciously quiet as well. "I am very sorry," Krum says eventually. "I think I vosvot is vord?jumping on conclusions."

"Jumping on what?"

"Hermoninny wrote" Krum stops and shakes his head. "It is not important."

"Yes it is!" Because Ron wants to know what the hell Hermonin_Hermione_ wrote that would make Krum, who is not a stupid guy, think Ron would enjoy being pounced on. Which he had. Sort of. But he really was very drunk at the time.

Krum hesitates, then says, "Hermoninny wrote dat you vere going out all de time vit Harry. And I vos not understanding correctly."

Ron blinks for a couple of minutes. "Youshewhat?"

"I am very sorry."

Ron sits down on the bed and lets the potion bottle dangle between his knees. "You thought I was shagging Harry?"

"It is idiom, no? And Hermoninny writes very tinily."

Ron rubs his eyes and sighs. "That's not how she meant it, mate. Leastways I don't think that's how. I _hope_ not."

"I am saying I am sorry."

"Well, you can stop now." He looks up; Viktor really is looking sorry about the whole thing, and he's got a way of putting his face together that makes it hard to stay cross with him. Kind of like kicking a puppy. Except Viktor's a lot bigger than a puppy, which just makes it that much worse. And wasn't he supposed to be calling him Krum?

"Dey are not shouting now," VikKrumwhoever says, and Ron realizes yeah, it's been a while since he'd heard any shouting from they other room. "Ve should go check, yes?"

Ron's about to say yes when Harryit sounds like Harrymoans. Loud enough to wake the rest of the bloody inn. And it doesn't sound like pain. "Oh, bloody buggering hell."

Viktor's eyebrows shoot up. "Stamina. I am impressed."

"Betcha wish you'd've jumped on him, then," Ron mutters, and covers his ears. He got enough of that last night, thanks.

"No," Viktor says gravely, and gets up to shut the bathroom door. At least that muffles it. "Malfoy vould haff harmed me, I am thinking."

"You are thinking?" Ron shakes his head. "I don't want to know. I don't understand it and I don't want to know."

"Vot are you vanting, den?"

Ron thinks about it, and about Viktor, and Hermione, and that one time, and last night. It makes his head hurt almost as much as Malfoy. "I want to go back to sleep," he eventually says; he feels this is an achievable short-term goal.

Viktor nods, and waves his arm expansively over the bed.

Ron blinks.

In the other room, someone squeaks.

So Ron lays down on Viktor's bed, facing away from the windows, and covers his head with a pillow for good measure. After a few minutes the mattress jiggles, and then there's a hand on his hipjust his hip, not moving but heavy and warm. And the bed's comfy and his hangover is receding and Viktor is not quite close enough to imply anything, and anyway, kicking a bloke out of his own hotel room is just not on, no matter what he did to youwhat you did with himlast night.

Call it Decision #35. He'd work out later whether or not it was a bad one.


End file.
